Film Noir
by Serpentis
Summary: Aziraphale has a slight fixation with writing bad fiction in the style of Raymond Chandler. Can Crowley distract him from his hard work? m/m slashiness


TITLE: Film Noir

AUTHOR: Serpentis

PAIRING: Aziraphale/Crowley

RATING: PG13

FEEDBACK: the_evil_lord_alexander@yahoo.co.uk

DISCLAIMER: *kleptomaniac look* Not mine - I just borrow them, traumatise them, and sent them back grubby

SUMMARY: Aziraphale has a slight fixation with writing bad fiction in the style of Raymond Chandler. Can Crowley distract him from his hard work? m/m slashiness

ARCHIVING: You want it? *faints*

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Film Noir

It was dark that night, the kind of darkness that you could slice through with a machete. It wasn't raining, a change for this neighbourhood, but the streets and cobbled gleamed as if they'd been polished with the fat of a slaughtered sacrificial rams.

I'd just been at the precinct, making sure that those hoodlums I took down were well under lock and key and that they were crying to their momma's in their only phone call home, when I suddenly knew that there was something big going down on the other side of my patch. Call it instinct. Call it the hand of a higher power. I knew that I needed out of those poky prison cells and into the night before something went real wrong.

The door to my office was open and the room wreathed in cigar smoke. As the haze lifted I saw him…eyes hidden behind those smoked glass lenses, long legs from here to hell and a smile that could crack the heart of the stoniest angel.

He slinked over, tongue licking at those sinful lips, and smirked.

"Hey angel, you don't mind, do ya?"

"What you doin' here, Toni? I thought you were doing time in Sing Sing for those concrete boots they found on Hubcap McGraw."

"There ain't a cell strong enough to keep this demon, sweetheart." And with that he curled himself onto my desk, swigging at the JD in the decanter as if it were root beer.

"They'll be after you. And when they catch you, I'll be there watching you do the sit down dance in Old Smoky."

"Now, there ain't no need for that, is there? Just 'cos you didn't want to get in my slacks don't make me the target for your…"

Drawing my trusty .22 I shut him up then in the only way I knew how…

"Angel?" Aziraphale jumped, a large ink blot bespoiling the neatly written script. Crowley, lips curving at the look at absolute panic on the face of the writing supernatural being, was leaning artistically against the door frame that led from the tiny oak-panelled study to the supremely modern and minimalist bedroom. That was the problem with the demon and angel living together – the culture clash created some rather friction-filled moments – and they always ended up arguing over their interior décor. As always, Crowley had beaten Aziraphale into submission with his demonic talents, but the little office remained the angel's kingdom; any attempt to change it would have ended up with the probably use of Holy Water and not in a pleasurably sadomasochistic way either.

The demon always ended up as the femme fatale in the trashy 1940's noir novellas that Aziraphale was rather into producing. The obsession had begun with the finding of a first edition of 'The Maltese Falcon' on a market stall in Camden, and hadn't ceased. After spending rather too much money of completing the full set of first edition Dashiell Hammett novels, the angel had moved onto other authors of the same genre such as Raymond Chandler. It was Aziraphale's ambition to write a book that would be the contemporary equivalent of these literary masters, but there was one problem.

He wasn't very good.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Fingers ghosted over the back of the angel's neck, splaying out and feeling the tension in the shoulders and back.

"You're tense. You need to relax more."

"I am relaxed" hissed Aziraphale through gritted teeth. The inkblot had swallowed up half a difficulty created paragraph. He tried to glare at the demon, who gave a small grin and elegantly sprawled out on the desk, crushing the piles of elegantly copperplated sheets under his snaky body.

"Crowley. Go away? Just, please, oh, just go will you?"

The demon looked over the top his incredibly fashionable sunglasses and stared. Something in his strange eyes, Aziraphale could see, was enjoying tormenting him _immensely_. And, dammit, that look always shot right down his nerve endings and straight into his groin. Something in that look was just pure, unadulterated, naked sexuality. Oh to just take him here, over the desk, but the angel knew he couldn't. There was a rule that they, well he, had decided upon. No sex in the study.

"Crowley, I won't ask you again. Get off my desk, please, before I have to go and get the Holy Water and drive you off." Cold water, yes, nice Holy Water. Concentrate on that. Freezing cold. Icebergs. Margaret Thatcher. The Metatron having a massive hissy fit. Pavarotti in his underwear. Underwear. Crowley never wears underwear…

Aziraphale whimpered. He glared more at the demon, who simply grinned even more dangerously and slowly unbuttoned the top button of his clinging black jeans.

"Get thee behind me, Crowley!" hissed the angel. "Go away!"

Hitching up his slender hips, the demon wriggled out of the tight denim and lay sprawled on the desk. "Now, there's no need for that, is there? Just because you don't want to get in my slacks doesn't make me the target for your…"

Aziraphale shut him up in the only way he knew how. At least this time it wasn't a pistol he forced into the willing mouth…


End file.
